


Bonds of Servitude

by Ambo_Jambo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s relationship, Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Slave, Slave!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambo_Jambo/pseuds/Ambo_Jambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU. Set in modern London post-right wing extremist revolution in the mid-80s. Slavery is now a common punishment in Britain for offenders after reforms to help ease the strain on prisons. John Watson deserts the armed forces and is sentenced to slavery for his crime. Sherlock Holmes chooses John to be his in-house help. John seeks to gain Sherlock's trust, and his freedom, what he didn't count on getting, was love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

‘Guilty,’ the word caused John to flinch, even though he had known it was inevitable that he would be found otherwise, he had allowed himself in the split second pause given by the juror that he would walk away a free man. The judge’s gavel banged down, as the courtroom began to get restless, calling for execution.

‘Order, order in the court,’ the dusty white-wigged man boomed down from the bench. He cleared his throat and addressed John, “John Hamish Watson, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers of the crime of desertion from the armed forces, the penalty for which is execution by firing squad,” John squeezed his eyes shut as the courtroom once again murmured its approval while the judge banged for silence. 

“However,” the judge began again, “you have been a trained army medical doctor for over a decade, and up until this point have had no record of cowardice or misconduct and have served this country faithfully. That is why I shall allow you to continue to live, and to serve, by sentencing you to slavery, until your death or until your master gives you your freedom.” The gavel banged down for the final time as the courtroom erupted into anger - they had come to see an execution not to let a deserter walk away with his life. John slumped down into his seat as his lackey came to take him to the prisoner transport van. 

A short ride from the High Court took John down to Southwark Bridge, underneath which London’s slave trading was performed. Lives changed hands here for money or, for slaves of lesser condition, goods. Whores were bought here, alongside butlers, chefs, nannies, maids, any menial job designed purely for the pleasure of the person that owned them would be performed by the men and women who were no longer such. They were now only slaves.  
When the British National Front came to power in the mid-80s they had performed sweeping reforms on the judicial system, making slavery in Britain legal. A series of right-wing revolutions had followed in other countries and now the common slave trade across Europe was well established. 

John was dragged, hands and feet bound in chains to join a line of other state-owned slaves - men and women who had been sentenced to slavery or had been forced to due to debts, homelessness or from long-term unemployment. Across from them in the crowded market place were rows of others in chains, exotic looking men and women from Africa or the far-east were standing, shirtless and oiled waiting for inspection. Further back behind the slaves of the wealthy and prominent traders, were the weak, old sick slaves, not fit to do hard manual labour or those that had been disfigured. John shuddered and avoided looking at them, wondering if in years to come he would be back at this market as one of the twisted old men, long years of servitude etched onto his skin. 

He had been stripped to the waist, allowing for his military tattoos to show, always a strong selling point. A man with greasy black hair and an ill-fitting suit straining around a rotund figure was eyeing John up eagerly. He and the government slaver began to discuss his condition and history as though he was a used car.  
Hovering just behind the fat businessman, two slender, suited men were also listening to the slaver's sales pitch. 'I must be prime fucking rib to draw a crowd,' John sneered to himself. 

'Let me see his teeth,' the potential buyer grumbled, 'I'm not getting conned into buying some runaway slave in poor health for the price you're asking.'  
John's slaver spat on the ground, before attempting to force John's mouth open. He resisted, clamping his mouth shut and struggling against his restraints. The ugly man trying to sell him became enraged, and began to beat him with a long, hard metal baton. He fell to his knees under the harsh blows, sure he would hear a crack of his bones snapping any minute. 

'I'll take him, slaver, stop damaging my property,' a cool voice broke through. One of the men in suits, with pale skin, curly black hair and piercing blue eyes was pulling money out of his coat, a lot of money. The slaver growled and spat again, sheathing his weapon and putting his grimy hand out for the cash.  


'Sherlock what are you doing?' snapped the second man, 'buying a disobedient, untrained slave for more than he is worth? You've gone soft, brother dear.' 

The man named Sherlock did not respond, simply slapped the wad of notes into the hand of the man who had beaten John and waited silently as a bill of Sale and Ownership was written and signed, John's chains were unlocked, and the metal collar locked in place around his neck. The slaver handed Sherlock a copy of his ownership rights, and the key to the collar, both of which disappeared into deep pockets of the coat he wore. Sherlock motioned for John to stand, and looked him up and down before apparently losing interest and striding away. His brother followed and left John standing next to the line of unsold slaves. The government slave trader gave him a rough shove in the direction the two brothers had went, and John stumbled as he followed on behind them. 

As they reached the road, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled up. John’s stomach tightened with fear, the car looking ominous, ready to whisk him off to a life of servitude, or perhaps even his death. The man could do whatever he wanted to John, he owned his body and his life. Sherlock and his brother got in, and looked out at John as he stood on the pavement, immobile. 

‘Get in,’ snapped the second man, impatience etched on his face. John still stood there, too fearful of what was to come to accept invitation to sit in the car. The man swiftly exited the car and grabbed John by his hair, throwing him forcefully onto the floor and getting in behind him, slamming the door shut.  


‘I will thank you not to touch my property like that again, Mycroft,’ came the cool voice of Sherlock from somewhere above him. John lay on the floor of the car, scalp burning, cursing the one named Mycroft.  


‘Sit up,’ Mycroft’s command came, and this time John obeyed swiftly. He caught the smug glace Mycroft gave to Sherlock as he did as he was told. The car had a long interior, with six seats, two rows of three facing each other. Sherlock and Mycroft sat on one, a young woman, a smartphone in hand and collar around her neck sat on the other side of the car. John sat on one of the seats next to her, facing his new master. 

The car ride was approximately fifteen minutes long but felt like years. The atmosphere was tense, the silence only broken by the clicking of the slave girl on the phone she carried.  


‘The Home Secretary requests you join her for a meeting in an hour, sir,’ she announced after a notification noise came through on the phone. Mycroft nodded at her and she began frantically typing again.  


John looked over her shoulder at the driver of the car, he could see the silver metallic collar just peeking out from his uniform. They were obviously a rich family, to own more than one house slave raised them above most middle-class families, but to have personal assistants and drivers as well would suggest they were amongst some of the wealthiest men in London. Slaves, while common, were not cheap. 

The thought filled John with dread. Who knew who the man that bought him was? What if he was so rich, and had so many slaves, he was used to using human beings as his playthings, wanted to use John for some depraved sadistic sex act? John felt bile rise in his throat, fear tearing at his stomach. Just as he thought he would vomit the car stopped and the door was opened. Sherlock stood, utterly ignored his brother and pushed John out of the car.

‘Thank you again for the delights of your company, Mycroft,’ Sherlock muttered, sarcasm heavy in his tone.  
‘Remember what we discussed, Sherlock,’ Mycroft replied as he shut the door and the car glided away. 

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode towards a black door with ‘221 B’ in shiny brass screwed to the glossy wood. He opened it, and let John through into the hallway before stepping inside and closing the door, locking it in place.  


‘ _Trapped now_ ,’ John thought as he heard the lock click. 

A woman in her sixties bustled out of the ground floor flat to greet them, ‘Hello, Sherlock dear, how was your outing with - oh, who’s this?’ she asked, interrupting her own train of thought as she laid eyes on John.  


‘Some home help for us, Mrs Hudson,’ Sherlock replied, beginning to stride up the stairs to the second flat. John felt the older woman’s eyes staring at the collar around his neck and he imagined it tightening slightly as he became more aware of it.  


'I didn't know we needed any,' she called after him, shooting John a sympathetic look before gesturing that he should follow Sherlock. 

John took her advice and followed the lanky gentleman up to the second flat. He was surprised at what greeted him. No penthouse, no spacious Victorian interior, just a dark little flat, it's furnishings would have been cosy had they not all been covered in a blanket of papers and coffee cups. Sherlock was standing at the window with his back to John, looking out onto the street below.  


After a lengthy pause John cleared his throat, 'What shall my duties be... sir?' he added after a pause.  


'Hm? Oh, yes. You,' Sherlock responded, turning to look at John thoughtfully, 'I suppose you can help keep this place a bit tidier, aid Mrs Hudson in her old age, bring me groceries and don't interrupt me when I'm thinking.'  


John nodded in response, lowering his gaze. He had never seen a slave look his master in the eye longer than necessary.  


'But first, go put a bloody shirt on,' Sherlock ordered, a faint smirk pulled at his lip before he turned back to the window. John gave a single nod to his back and went exploring the flat, looking for something to wear.


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours later, after he had found some clothing and had been given a bowl of broth and a cup of tea by Mrs Hudson, John found himself washing several dishes in the sink. He was working reluctantly, still utterly dismayed at his punishment. Housework was almost normal - the fact that it was not his house, nor his mess was still alien to him. He was still in a daze, the full consequence of his situation not quite hitting home. 

The kitchen was odd, more odd than the rest of the flat. Chemicals and bits of organ floated in jars on the countertops. It smelled faintly of formaldehyde. It was rather unsettling but John assumed Sherlock had some work or hobby to do with - he glanced at the nearest jar - pickled bulls eyeballs. He began wiping the counter and the jars, bits of flesh and organ floating in preserving fluids. Maybe he was a scientist working on animals or something, John pondered over Sherlock, every oddity he examined made him more curious about the man who now owned him. 

John was scrubbing the counters and cabinets, and decided to clean out the fridge as well. The work was good, it kept his mind off of his immediate situation. He had already decided he would escape this punishment, it was only a matter of time. He just had to get on with it, bide his time and formulate a plan while staying out of trouble. He opened the fridge, cleaning fluid in hand, and shrieked. He dropped the bottle and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing on his back. 'Oof' went the air from his lungs as he tried to scramble backwards, away from the glazed eyes locked onto his from the severed head within. 

He was a madman, this Sherlock, mad. A murderer. He had a mans head in the fridge, he was keeping bits of his victims all over the kitchen in full view. John was hyperventilating as he scooted backward, hellbent on running out of this flat, of running as far away from this man as he could. He bumped into something firm and warm in his panicked scramble away from the gory scene and felt his throat close. 

'What are you doing?' the deep, cool voice of his captor came from above his head. John was sitting on the man's feet. He looked up and saw his master looking down at him, confusion across his face. 

'Get away from me! Don't touch me - I'll kill you I have have to. Get away!' John yelled, stumbling to his feet and across the kitchen, putting distance between himself and Sherlock.

'Why?' came the response. John did not see the calm collection of a killer closing in on prey in the man's eyes, nor the anger of a slaver who had just been yelled at, threatened, by a mere slave. He only saw confusion, even interest gazing back at him from startling blue eyes. 

'You're a psychopath!' John replied, pointing into the open fridge. The head stared mournfully out into the kitchen, and Sherlock stared back at it. The tall, pale man sighed and pressed his fingertips against his temples. 

'I'm a highly functioning sociopath, not a psychopath, please get it right,' he grumbled out, tone verging on condescending, 'and no, I did not kill that man in the fridge. I have contacts at St Bartholomew Hospital Morgue. I perform experiments, I get bored, I like to find things out. The jars, the head, all experiments.' 

John began to feel foolish, the panic beginning to leave his body. He would not relax, however. He had no way of knowing that this man, who physically owned the rights to do whatever he wanted to John because he was his property, did not mean him harm. 

'John, I do not underestimate you. You are a soldier, serving more than a decade by the slight trembling in your hands - beginnings of shell shock. You are a trained killer, both with weapons and your bare hands - you can tell by the way you carry yourself especially when you feel threatened, like now. I'm a fit, strong man with a height advantage, yes - but you could easily overcome me with your training. I would not have picked you of all the sorry samples at that market to bring home to cut up into pieces. The risk would be too high. There. You can relax now, I can tell by your pupils and breathing that you are still in the instinctive fight or flight reflex,' Sherlock intoned this almost as if in a trance, eyes darting around John's person as he spoke. John nodded and let his tense muscles relax, deciding that from a sociopath the blunt explanation of why John wouldn't be his choice of victim was as good a reason to take Sherlock's word as any. 

'Yes, sorry, master,' the word slipped past his teeth before he could stop it, and John hated the way it tasted. Bitter and metallic, like a chain, keeping him captive. 

Sherlock recoiled slightly, 'Please don't call me that. The occasional 'sir' will do, you just have to acknowledge my wishes, a nod will do.' The man seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of being reminded he actually owned another human being. Lucky for John, who wanted to spit after letting the word slip out of him. 

Sherlock began again, seeming to want to clarify, 'I do not support slavery.' 

John frowned, 'And yet here I am.' His retort out past his lips before he could stop himself. 

'You remember you were being viciously beaten when I stepped in and helped you,' came the reply, irritation creeping into the taller man's tone. John dropped his gaze. 

'Forgive me, sir' Sherlock nodded and waved his apology away. After a second, John spoke again, 'If you don't support it, and you seem to be implying you bought me as a kindness to help me... Why don't you just let me go?'

Sherlock smiled faintly, 'Because you could be useful. Once I no longer have need of your services, John, you will have your freedom.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoys reading. Kudos and reviews always appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

'Yes, Detective Inspector, I'm on my way,' Sherlock spoke with a clipped tone, hanging up immediately after he had finished speaking. 'John, fetch my coat. And one for yourself. I'm going out I want to you assist me at work today,' he called to John who was in the kitchen.

'Yes, sir,' John replied, moving quickly to get the coats.

    John sat quietly next to his owner in the back of a taxi, the temptation to ask where they were going was burning on his lips but he resisted. He doubted he would get an answer anyway, Sherlock had a faraway expression on his face, one that had become familiar to John as his thinking face. He had instructions not to interrupt when his master was thinking.

'Master,' he thought to himself, bitterly. He had grown used to the unusual gentleman that had purchased him a few weeks ago from the notorious Southwark Slave Market, had some modicum of respect for him, even had begun to admire his evident genius, but the master-slave dynamic still existed between them, and it caused John almost physical pain to know that he was not his own person, let alone have daily reminders from his own mind.

    The taxi slowed to a stop down by the wharf, the Thames lapping at the wood languidly. Sherlock strode confidently down the creaking wooden planks, towards the fluorescent yellow presence of the police at the end of the wharf. John trotted along a reasonable three paces behind him, eyes lowered, pretending he was invisible. He was increasingly uncomfortable as he stood behind the huddle of police officers, all talking and interacting with each other and Sherlock and utterly ignoring his existence.

He became more and more angry the longer he stood there. ‘I’m a human being too, you shits!’ he wanted to scream at them, but common sense held his tongue. The only thing that would stop them from drowning him if he spoke to them like that would be his owner’s protection, but he did not know or trust Sherlock enough to rely on him yet.

‘It’s like the others, the killing style?’ Sherlock asked one of the officers who nodded, ‘There’s no discernable pattern to the dump sites, but all the victims have similar wounds.’

He watched Sherlock examining something in the water below, John thought he could see a small wooden boat at the end of the dock. Sherlock moved swiftly, with a sense of purpose and an air of superiority that was evidently irritating those around him. He pulled a cameraphone from one of the voluminous pockets of his coat, and took several pictures from different angles.

‘Is that necessary, Holmes?’ asked a man with floppy, greasy hair and a big nose when he noticed the pictures.

‘Shut up, Anderson, I’m trying to think,’ Sherlock quipped back. John noticed the man’s jaw visibly clench.

Anderson now turned to look at John, hovering behind the officers, ‘Got a new toy, Sherlock? Didn’t know you swung that way… Donnovan you owe me fifty quid!’ he called to a curly haired, dark skinned woman who rolled her eyes.

‘Shut up, Anderson,’ this time it came from a silver-haired man, standing the closest to Sherlock, who had just finished his examination. ‘Any ideas, Sherlock?’ he asked, turning his attention to the taller man.

‘Seven,’ Mr Holmes replied, beginning to stride back towards John.

‘Care to share?’ asked the detective, having to walk quicker than normal to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides.

‘I’ll call you when I have a clearer picture, but tell your men to be on the look out for a five foot nine male wearing a suit made of black polyester fibre, extremely agile and strong, and carrying a short, curved blade - like a scimitar,’ Sherlock answered him, John thought he detected a note of satisfaction in his owner’s voice.

The other man shook his head, ‘I don’t know why I’m still shocked by you, Sherlock. I’ll have the body sent to the morgue immediately. I'll call you if I have more details.’

A faint smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, ‘Good day, Lestrade.’

On the drive back, Sherlock was looking through the pictures he had taken, frowning to himself. John watched him curiously.

'Youre a detective, then?' he asked, flinching immediately as the piercing blue eyes shot up to meet his own, 'Apologies for speaking without permission, sir.'

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge his apology, just answered his question, 'I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world.'

'What's a consulting detective?' John asked him.

'When the police are lost, which is always, they consult me. I help them solve cases,' Sherlock told him, a note of pride creeping into his voice, ‘Evidently they have a string of similar murders with no way of catching the killer as yet.’

'Are you any good at solving crimes?' John asked, smirking slightly.

'The best,' Sherlock replied.

'Not hard if you're the only one in the world though, is it?' John teased, smiling at the detective.

Sherlock's face broke into a smile, and teased back, 'Cheek. Behave yourself.'

John nodded, still smiling but not wanting to push it. He was glad he had found that he could hold conversation with his owner, otherwise it would be a lonely time in the little flat on Baker Street.

Passing under a motorway bridge Sherlock called to the driver to stop. He hopped out, leaving John in the car. He squinted curiously as Holmes spoke with a young woman, wearing several layers of clothing that looked as though she had been sleeping rough for a while. After a brief discussion the girl nodded and left, and Sherlock returned to the taxi.

‘Homeless network,’ he said in response to John’s curious look, 'Much faster than police work.' John nodded, still confused but decided against asking for clarification.

They arrived outside St Bartholomew's Hospital, and headed inside to the morgue. John once again walking quickly behind Sherlock's long strides, coat billowing behind him dramatically. Sherlock marched through the double doors, startling a young mousey looking woman who was pulling a corpse out of a freezer.

‘Hello Molly,’ Sherlock’s baritone rumbled across the cool lab.

‘Oh, h-hello Sherlock,’ the young woman stammered back. John studied her from a distance. She was clearly somewhat intimidated by Sherlock’s presence, the way she scurried around him.

‘I suppose you’re here for the body that was found in the rowboat this morning?’ Molly asked him, moving to open a freezer for him, laying the cadaver out for his inspection. John moved closer, curious.

The young medical pathologist noticed John’s movement and started, just realising she and the consulting detective were not alone. Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed the collar he wore and John looked away awkwardly.

‘You - you have a slave, Sherlock?’ she almost whispered.

‘Hm? Oh yes, Molly Hooper, meet John Watson, John this is Molly one of the best medical pathologists in the world,’ Sherlock chirped without turning round, attention fixated on the cold, blue-ish body on the metal slab before him, gaping wound to the chest visible even from where John was standing. John noticed Molly flush at Sherlock’s acknowledgement of her expertise. John had only just met her and could tell she was strongly attracted to the tall, dark detective.

‘He’s helping me on a case,’ Sherlock continued, seemingly to justify John’s presence. Molly nodded, but John saw a glint of jealousy in her eyes as she moved to help Sherlock roll the body over.

‘Jealous? Why on earth - oh God, that’s the second one today to think we’re sleeping together,’ John rolled his eyes to himself, shaking his head slightly, ‘Too bad for my owner, I’m not gay.’

‘Looking at the wound close up confirms my initial thought, a scimitar or similar curved short sword,’ Sherlock spoke to himself, but Molly gave him noises of agreement anyway.

‘Time of death is between twelve and two this morning,’ Molly informed him, and he nodded thoughtfully.

‘Thank you, Miss Hooper, that will be all for today,’ he nodded to her, turning to stride towards the exit, ‘Come, John.’

John’s stomach lurched slightly at the commanding tone in Sherlock’s voice, he was clearly a man on a mission - a shark with the scent of blood. John nodded to Molly politely and she raised a hand before he jogged after the detective.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suffering from really bad writers block on this story right now - will try to get out the next few chapters relatively soon, please bear with me.


	4. Chapter 4

John was tidying around the flat, watching the 10pm news over his shoulder while he cleaned up, as Sherlock lay on the couch, hands under his chin, long fingers pressed together almost as if in prayer. His eyes were closed, and John was studying him as he moved around as quietly as he could. His skin was smooth and pale as though made of marble, his prominent blue veins only heightening the effect. His dark hair was a curly mess on top of his hair but not unattractively so. You could cut yourself on the sharp lines of his cheekbones and strong jaw, John examined him slowly, with attention to detail, fascinated with the man that owned the rights to his life. Despite living in close proximity and watching his behaviour from a distance, John still hadn’t quite worked out how Sherlock Holmes ticked. 

He started from his daze-like state and blushed slightly, realising that quite a bit of time had passed while he had been absorbing the presence of Sherlock. He began to busy himself with the tidying again, occasionally looking over at the television, the weather was on, soon it would be the headlines. He was dusting a chest of drawers under the window and opened one of the drawers to stuff a bundle of envelopes into. His heart leapt as he gazed into the drawer, brushing his fingertips across the cool black metal of the pistol inside. He looked over his shoulder again, this time to check on Sherlock, but the man was still horizontal across the couch. He opened the drawer next to it to put the papers into, not wanting his owner to realise he had discovered the weapon for fear he would move it. If something happened between them and Sherlock tried to fuck him over, John would be able to reach the gun and fight his way out of the flat.  
The headlines began to roll as he poured himself a cup of tea, sitting in one of the armchairs while Sherlock appeared asleep. Holmes hadn’t not given him permission to sit on the living room furniture. John listened to DI Lestrade giving a press conference at Scotland Yard, he also recognised the faces of a few others on the panel including Sergeant Donovan.   
Lestrade outlined details of a tall, athletic man with an interest or training in martial arts and chinese weaponry, wearing black clothing. He called for witnesses or anyone with information to come forward to help their investigation. Shortly after the news moved on to an uprising in the Congo, Sherlock’s phone rang. He answered it immediately, and John winced as he realised Sherlock had been awake the entire time probably. At least he hadn’t been punished for sitting in the chair. 

After a brief discussion Sherlock swept gracefully off of the couch, ‘A young man has come forward claiming that he drew the details of this crime before it happened, he’s practically claimed responsibility for killing the man. Let’s go straighten the idiots at the Met out, shall we?’ 

John just stared after him for a few seconds as the detective put on his trademark coat with the collar turned up and left the flat, before shooting up and running after him.   
The taxi took them to a small studio flat in Brixton, outside of which two police cars were parked. Sherlock handed John the money to pay for the taxi and hopped out as fast as he could, heading for the studio. John could tell he was excited.   
DI Lestrade met them at the door, John once again a respectful distance from the officers and trying his hardest to listen to their conversations with Sherlock and each other. 

‘Sherlock, this is Max Parker,’ Lestrade introduced the detective to a scruffy, brown haired young man wearing an oversized green sweater and chinos, covered in paint and ink. After the introductions were done, Parker produced artwork, signed and authenticated by himself that showed starkly similar comparisons to the way the victim was left, and the description of the attacker in the panels.

‘Look at these,’ an officer called from the laptop on the desk. He was scrolling through a series of online comics. Lestrade looked over the policeman’s shoulder and raised his eyebrows, ‘Are these yours?’

‘I draw comics and scan them onto the internet in my free time, thats my website,’ Parker explained, ‘this is my latest project, this twisted dark figure that carries a sword and runs people through with it under the cover of dark. Its my most popular online work,’ he added with a hint of pride.

‘Yes, well those comics look very similar to the murders of Heather Downey and Robert Johnson, and the one you’re holding was the most recent, Jeffrey Douglas,’ Donovan spoke up from the corner, ‘similar location to the ones you draw, definitely similar wounds...’

‘Its possible that this killer is copying these comics,’ Lestrade interjected, ‘that’s our best lead right now. We just don’t know how to catch him.’

Sherlock was fixated on Max, ‘When did you upload this piece?’ 

‘Yesterday evening around six,’ he answered.

‘And the time of death is somewhere between midnight and two am,’ Sherlock said thoughtfully. After a pause he continued, ‘If he is a killer inspired by your artwork that gives us at a minimum of six hours to find out how to catch him as he prepares and hunts for the kill. Six hours from the next time you put up a piece of artwork.’

Sherlock and John left the flat shortly after listening to Lestrade firmly instructing Parker to not upload any further artwork to the website, and to contact the police immediately if he was contacted by anyone demanding artwork. Sherlock was rolling his eyes as they pulled up outside Baker Street, muttering about slow police work and imbecilic police policies. 

John smiled slightly at Sherlock’s back, realizing his disappointment was due to a stopping of the artwork, which would help lead to the killer. Then he stopped dead halfway up the stairs to the flat.

‘He wants more artwork, but that would mean another body if he can’t work out how to find the killer. Sherlock doesn’t care about saving the victims - it’s about catching the perpetrator,’ John realised. He didn’t really know what he expected, sociopaths don’t feel the same emotions as others, nor are motivated by the same feelings - rage, vengeance, a desire to save and preserve innocent life. Sherlock wanted to understand the killer, this ninja, and to beat him. To prove that although the murderer was smart enough to get away with killing three people, that other, lesser people such as the police could be beaten, he was smarter still to have caught him. John reflected it was oddly like dogs fighting to establish the alpha.

Sherlock gave John a laptop, one of many in the flat, and ordered him to monitor the artist’s website for any activity. He was clearly tense and frustrated, stalking around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘But the police told him not to upload,’ John pointed out.

‘Watch it anyway, not just new artwork but comments, questions about being late putting up pictures,’ Sherlock snapped.

‘But, sir -’ John began.

Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and struck John across the face, ‘Do as I say!’ he roared into his slave’s face.

‘Yes, master,’ John nodded, timid now. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed his coat, storming out of the room, and out of the building altogether. John just watched him go, then stared blankly at the gloomy website. It had a dramatic black background and large red letters across the header reading ‘Hunted by Night: Saga of a Modern Day Ninja’. 

‘Doesn’t exactly have a ring to it,’ John thought, grumbling and rubbing his jaw where he had been hit.

He began to think he had misjudged the state of his relationship with Sherlock. Perhaps they would never become friends or something close to it, perhaps there would always be that power, that dominance that Sherlock longed for in the way of true respect and friendship.

After almost three hours and several cups of tea later, there was still no sign of Sherlock. Concern was starting to bristle at the back of John’s mind, as he refreshed the page for the twentieth time. His heart leapt as a new comic appeared at the top of the website. It was entitled ‘Shadow Warrior Strikes Detective’. It depicted a tall, slender man with a shock of black hair, sharp cheekbones and a turned up coat collar, lounging in a multi-storey car park. The man was smoking a cigarette, the narration at the top of the panels read ‘It was late… past 3’ John glanced at the clock - 2.46 - ‘An amateur detective believes he can best the Ninja’. The panels go on to depict a tall, shadowy figure assault and murder the clearly cartoon version of Sherlock Holmes, and claim it a victory over police corruption and injustice. 

John felt fear for Sherlock settle in his stomach, a cold weight sitting uncomfortably in his abdomen. He scanned the comic desperately for a way to find his owner. Finally he gasped, recognising a sign for a large bank in central London, that had a large multi-storey car park situated across the street, in the background of one of the panels.

He was halfway down the stairs, tugging his coat on when he remembered the gun. A split second pause before he turned and ran back upstairs, pulling it from the drawer, checking for ammunition and wedging it down the back of his jeans. John sprinted out of 221B and hailed the nearest taxi, flying to reach Sherlock in time, watching the minutes on the taxi’s digital clock slowly creep towards 3am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys.
> 
> Sorry for the massive delay in the chapters. I've started a new job, working a lot of hours a week (40+) and I havent really had a spare moment to write. I'm off the next few days im going to try and get a few hundred words done a night and get a few chapters up soon. 
> 
> thanks for bearing with me, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


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